A light rain falls over Paris, I'm in bed contemplating a hundred different ways to die. Leaving would be so much easier if his scent wasn't infused in the sheets and the pillows but two hours after he was here I can still feel it getting stronger. I wear his boxers and smoke his cigarettes, trying to forget how time keeps slipping through my fingers like California sand.
I'm trapped in
my mind and this apartment, everything I do to distract my thoughts is
leading me back to the same conclusion: it wasn't supposed to be like
this. He says we'll go somewhere when he's finished school but I've
already spent too much time just waiting.
I'm running out of
options but something has to change. Maybe I'll throw away my clothes,
move back to New York, tell him all my secrets instead of writing them
down and posting them here. Maybe I'll stop posting here. Maybe I'll
just stop. I'm running out of options. A hundred ways to die.